The other day I wrote about my grandfather on the anniversary of his death, and I mentioned that the summer he died I read two books about grandparents dying. One of them I don't remember anything about - not the title, author or any detail other than a grandparent died. The other book was by Madeleine L'Engle, The Summer of the Great-Grandmother.
Even though I didn't mention the book by name in my post I was thinking about it, and am now thinking about it even more since Ms. L'Engle died this week.
It's interesting how things like that fit together in life.